Big Bad Wolf
by Hawki
Summary: Arena of Fate Oneshot: Fenrir was the Father of Wolves. The Slayer of Odin. But even he was unprepared for the horrors unleashed by Little Red Riding Hood.


_A/N_

_So, Crytek decided that there weren't another MOBA games on the market and decided to announce _Arena of Fate_. So far, I'm distinctly "meh." Lore-wise, the notion of combining historical and folklore figures might have had promise, but _Smite _kinda beat it to the punch, and with a more cohesive theme. Perhaps it'll shine gameplay-wise, but...well, time will tell I guess. _

_Anyway, drabbled this up as a result._

* * *

**Big Bad Wolf**

The prey was near.

That was what Fenrir kept telling himself as he made his way up to the clock tower, the looming structure that stood above the Arena of Fate. He was the Father of Wolves. The Slayer of Odin. The Bringer of Ragnarok, the Defiance Against Fate, slaying Víðarr at the end of the world, despite what prophecy foretold. He'd even done battle against gods of various other mythologies in a similar arena.

Yet here he was. In the clock tower. Pursuing the one that haunted him. Pursuing the scourge of his kind. Prey, yet also hunter. Despised, yet also respected. The one whom he could smell. And yet, could not…

And entering the clock tower, he saw why. And let out a whine at the sight.

Wolves. A dozen of them, suspended from the ceiling by various pieces of red cloth. Somehow their weight was supported by the material. Somehow, the prey had found it within itself to skin them all. Let their entrails hang out of their bellies. All of them, sliced the same way. All of them dressed up like…like…

"Do you like them? I call them grandmas."

Fenrir howled and stepped forward. In that instant, something grabbed his ankle, stringing him up. Snarling, he tried to cut the cloth, the substance dangling from one of the gears of the clock tower. It wouldn't budge.

"Of course, I only had one grandma," the voice continued. "This is, what, eleven, twelve? Only had one set of parents, so maybe that analogy falls flat."

The cloth kept dragging the Father of Wolves upward. The Father of Wolves felt more and more like a suckling pet dog as he failed to cut the cloth.

"But of course," the voice said. "You'd know all about that wouldn't you?"

The gear stopped. Fenrir found himself just hanging there, on the edge of the stairwell that wormed its way around the clock tower's wall. And there, in the shadows, stood his prey. His foe. The Scourge of Wolves. Stepping out of the shadows, removing that which veiled her face, he saw the face of his enemy.

Little Red Riding Hood.

Her green eyes shone with the madness of one who had survived the Wolf of the Woods. Her hair blonde like the sun her hood covered it from. Her hands bloody – the Huntsman had taught her his trade well. Hundreds of wolves had fallen to her malice. Including the dozen below.

He had hoped to kill her. Had hoped as soon as he heard that she'd been dragged into the arena as well. Yet now…Fenrir swallowed. He began to pant. For a moment, he could see Odin laughing at him.

"So," Red said, grinning, "you're the Father of Wolves eh?"

Fenrir snarled at her.

"Well, at least you're not dressing up like grandma," she said, drawing out a serrated blade. One that was dull, rusty, and dripping with blood. "Poor grandma. If only she could see me."

"Seeee youuu…not seeeee…"

Red lunged forward, putting the blade at Fenrir's throat. "Don't talk," she hissed. "Not again. Not this time. No big eyes, or hair, or teeth…"

Fenrir snapped his fangs at her.

"Now as it turns out, I once heard an interesting story," the murderess said, walking back to the shadows and dragging out a sack, its size and bulk suggesting that whatever it was carrying was something heavy. "There was once this wolf and three little pigs."

Fenrir snarled. He'd heard that story.

"The wolf ate two of the three pigs before the third managed to save his brothers," Red continued, dumping the sack down in front of him. "Got the pigs out of the wolf's belly…bit mangled mind you…and replaced them with rocks."

"I knowww…murdererrrs…"

"And they tossed him in a river," Red said, starting to open the sack. "I know this because they told me before I killed them. Tasted good too."

So pigs hated the huntress as well. Fenrir made a note of that. Now all he had to do was find a way to escape. Which was seeming more and more unlikely.

"But I wanted to test it," she said. "See what effects these babies might really have…"

The sack was opened. Stones, all of identical size, said size being akin to a man's head, spilled out. He looked at the huntress. She looked up at him. Her blade in hand. Her teeth white and shiny as she smiled. Her gaze insane.

"So then…" she whispered. "How many stones will it take to lower you from here…" She gestured to where Fenrir hung from the gear, "to down there?" she asked, pointing the blade at the ground. She then pointed it at his stomach. "Let's find out shall we?"

Fenrir howled. Fenrir snarled. Fenrir gnashed his fangs as she drew close.

And as the blade carved open his flesh, drenching itself in blood and fur, he screamed.


End file.
